Pain.
Pain so sharp it pierces to the bone, sinking deep into the marrow. It feels as though a glowing red needle has pierced the intense pain that spread through his body, driving it deep into his mind, into the crack in his consciousness.
The force that had been stirring, leaping, desperately trying to break through the crack and into the void, was directly triggered by this piercing sensation, exploding like a cache of tens of thousands of pounds of hot, volatile explosives buried beneath. The heat had already reached its critical point, and this final blow detonated it all.
The void of his consciousness shattered, and from beneath it burst life, power, instinct—breaking through the emptiness and exploding from his body in a scream. His collision with Roland sent him flying backward. This reaction was no longer the way of the Death King—it was Asa's way.
At the same time, blood gushed violently from the already ruptured wounds across his body. He seemed like a water balloon that had been filled to the brim, only to be pierced by countless holes. In an instant, blood poured from every part of his body.
Pain. The immense pain consumed him, driving him mad as it relentlessly tore at his body and mind. The force that had once held his body and consciousness together was now slipping away, and only now could Asa truly feel the extent of his injuries.
He had been wounded countless times before, and many of those injuries had been near-fatal. But compared to the wounds he carried now, those past injuries seemed trivial. Every part of his body—muscles, skin, even the tiniest blood vessels and nerves—was shattered. The blow he had dealt to Roland with his head had split open his scalp, and at least three of the muscles in his neck had ruptured, disintegrating into fragments. Even he was beginning to wonder how he hadn't already collapsed into a heap of blood and broken flesh.
In the midst of this overwhelming pain, a thought began to form in his mind, faint but insistent: Why don't I just let go of the sword hilt? It seemed as though all of this suffering had been caused by that very sword hilt. Following this thought, his gaze drifted to the hilt of the Black Star in his left hand.
He wanted to release it, to let go. But his hand wouldn't obey. It felt as though the sword hilt and his palm had fused, become one. And just as the thought of releasing it emerged, countless other thoughts rushed to stop him, blocking him, preventing him from acting. In the sea of his consciousness, it felt as though three black figures were entwined together, their presence in harmony with the sensation coming from the sword hilt.
Blood surged from his body, flowing down his arm toward the sword hilt. Yet not a single drop reached it. The cold, blackened sword hilt seemed to act as a searing iron, and as the blood touched it, it sizzled and evaporated instantly.
Crack.
A subtle, almost inaudible sound of breaking came from the sword hilt. There was no physical attack, yet the cracks along the hilt continued to widen and deepen.
White sword light cleaved through the air, the Holy Light Cross Sword of Lancelote finally arrived. But instead of striking Asa's body, it was aimed directly at his left hand and the sword hilt.
Because Roland had been sent flying, he had delayed his strike just long enough to witness Asa's change. Perhaps it was the confirmation that Asa had regained consciousness, or perhaps it was the sight of the sword hilt beginning to crack. Whatever the reason, Lancelote's strike now targeted the hilt.
Destroying the sword hilt could indeed prove more effective than killing Asa. The hilt already seemed to be on the verge of shattering. With just the slightest bit of external force, it would break into countless pieces. Lancelote's decision was not wrong; it was the most decisive course of action.
The moment the Holy Light Cross Sword struck the hilt, a deafening cracking sound echoed through the air, and the cracks on the hilt deepened and widened rapidly. It seemed that the sword hilt was on the verge of shattering entirely. But just as that happened, Lancelote's white sword light dissipated completely, and a black sword pierced through him from the side.
It entered through his heart and lungs, piercing through his chest, and finally struck his right hand—the very hand that had gathered all the sword energy. His sword energy, his life, and his right hand were instantly destroyed, vanishing without a trace, reduced to nothingness in the void.
Unwilling. That was Lancelote's last remaining thought. If only he had one more second, just a fraction of a moment, he could have shattered the sword hilt. But, it was the Black Star Sword that pierced him.
His form crumbled, dissipated into the air at a speed ten times faster than even Vadenina's disintegration. As he was vanishing, his only action was to look back one last time, toward the running Talice, and give her a bittersweet smile.
This smile was no longer the dignified, sacred expression of a paladin. It was full of sorrow, yet also love—a father's final expression of everything he had hidden deep inside.
"Father…" Talice screamed, her tears streaming down her face as she ran toward him. But in the next second, even that smile vanished completely into the void.
In the aftermath, Moriel's massive form crashed heavily to the ground, a growing hole in her chest. The powerful Sacred Crystal Dragon's body, once invincible, was now just as fragile in the presence of the Black Star's power. With great effort, she turned her head and looked at Roland, who was struggling to spit out his last few words.
"You idiots… I told you to kill that kid, not attack the Black Star…"
Her body quickly faded from existence, leaving only a small shard of crystal that fell to the ground where her head had once been.
Lancelote, on the other hand, left no trace. His form disintegrated entirely, and the Black Star Sword revealed itself in its place. It seemed almost alive as it spun in the air, then directed itself toward the hilt in Asa's hand, moving to reconnect.
Though it hadn't fully reconnected yet, the energy emanating from the sword spread and reached the hilt. The countless cracks in the hilt began to heal under this influence. Asa's gaze returned to the familiar emptiness, his mind once again melding with the black consciousnesses that had previously stirred within him. The surge of life and power that had briefly risen within him was quickly drowned beneath the overwhelming void, consumed once more by darkness.
The sky transformed into an endless black void, an infinite emptiness that stretched on without end. The ground, too, began to merge with the sky, becoming one with the vast emptiness. Elaine, Talice, and Roland—who had just risen from the ground—could only feel as though they were standing within the boundless void of the universe, suspended in space.
This was the full extent of the Black Star's power, the true form of the Death King's might.
Boom. The ground beneath their feet shattered, and molten lava erupted into the air. Grutt, with his last burst of strength, kicked off and finally arrived, his green-white aura shining like the only bright light in the overwhelming darkness. As he landed, the sand and stones around him flew into the air, sending Elaine, Talice, and Roland tumbling backward from the force of his arrival.
But he did not attack Asa. Instead, he grabbed Asa's left hand, which was still clutching the sword hilt. With his other hand, he reached for the sword's blade, which was slowly merging with the hilt.
"Hey! Wake up!" A roar almost shattered the entire dark void. All the light gathered in Grutt's hands as he actually managed to grip the Black Star, intending to forcefully tear the sword away with his own strength.
Asa stood like a puppet, unmoving, allowing Grutt's roar to echo in his ears and letting Grutt grip his hand. His hand, which held the sword, was slowly turning into obsidian, just like the Black Star itself. A faint black aura began to swirl around his body.
No force could stop it now. Asa's empty consciousness clearly saw Grutt's futile efforts. At this point, nothing, no power, could prevent this from happening. The sword blade was still slowly merging. After all, this was not something human strength could resist. The black aura and white light crazily collided and clashed, but the black aura was no longer the same as when only the hilt was present. Now, this was the entire Black Star.
Crack. The white light shattered, and Grutt's hand cracked as well. Even the world's most invincible, most powerful hands could no longer withstand the force of this void of darkness.
Despair. Elaine and Talice felt a sharp, bitter helplessness surge from the depths of their hearts, splitting all the strength and hope in their bodies in two, then vanishing without a trace. They weren't far from the scene, yet both stopped in their tracks—this was the deepest, most profound despair.
Suddenly, a surge of sword energy thrust in from the side, piercing straight toward Asa's chest. Though no longer vast or overwhelming, it was sharp and fierce—like the dying scream of a feral beast.
It was Roland who struck—at this moment, only he could. His once-gentle and handsome face was now almost completely mangled, his facial bones deformed, even one of his eyeballs had fallen out, making him look terrifying like a walking corpse. In his remaining eye, blood vessels filled every inch of the sclera—a reflection of the pain, despair, and unyielding will burning within him.
This was the final chance. He had poured every last bit of strength into this one strike. The Black Star had not yet fully fused; Asa's hand had changed, but his body and head were still covered in blood and wounds. Roland aimed to use this moment to shatter Asa's head into a thousand fragments. It was a strike fueled by the last embers of his life, burning everything for one final blow.
With a muffled grunt, Grutt was finally knocked back. The white fight spirit in his hands had thinned to near invisibility, and blood gushed from him in torrents. At the same moment, squelch—a palm-turned-blade struck flesh, pierced through, and blood burst like a sudden storm, raining down on Asa.
This wasn't Asa's blood—it was Elaine's.
Just as Roland unleashed that final strike, Elaine, who had been standing between them, suddenly dashed forward and placed herself in front of him. Roland's sword pierced through her back and out her chest, carving a massive hole through her body. The momentum didn't stop—it carried her along as the blade continued forward, until his blood-soaked hand finally stabbed into Asa's chest.
Roland stared in disbelief at Elaine impaled on his arm. It seemed utterly impossible—this was Elaine, so intelligent, so rational. This wasn't something she should've done, not her. Even Elaine herself seemed a little surprised. Logically, she knew she shouldn't have blocked the strike, and that even if she did, it wouldn't make a difference. But the moment she saw that final sword thrust aimed at the blood-soaked, motionless Asa—standing there like a puppet—her body had moved before reason could catch up.
No matter how rational a woman may be, she is still a woman. This is the sorrow of being a woman, and also her greatness.
"Please wake up… I'm begging you, wake up…"
Through the gaping hole in her chest, Roland could be clearly seen behind her. She struggled to lift her blood-covered hands and cupped Asa's blank face, gazing at him with a dazed, heartbroken look. Her tears streamed down, mixing with the blood covering her face.
Blood splattered into Asa's hollow eyes, turning that emptiness into a sea of crimson. At the center of that blood-red void, there was only Elaine's tear-streaked face. Two wounds deep enough to expose bone, her face stained with blood and grime—yet what reflected in his eyes was a sorrowful, icy clarity, like cold water: helpless, desolate, and full of despair.
Her voice was growing weaker. Her tear-filled eyes could no longer stay open, slowly closing—yet it seemed she couldn't bear to let them close, trying with all her strength to catch one more glimpse of Asa. Her hands still cradled his face as she murmured, "Please… wake up…"
Finally, her eyes gave out and shut completely. But even then, a last tear slid out, and the hands that had been holding Asa's face dropped at last.
Suddenly, Asa's face twitched. Something seemed to ignite in those once-empty eyes.
Heat. Scorching heat. The blood splattered on him, mixing with his own nearly dried-up blood, made him feel as though he were about to combust. Even the void in his consciousness had turned into that same burning, searing red—red that was so hot, it could set everything ablaze.
And it wasn't just heat from the outside in—more than that, it was a fire welling up from the depths behind the void itself. A fire that burned. A pain that seared.
Boom—a blaze of blood-red flames erupted from Asa's body. Elaine's blood, mingling with his own, truly ignited on this body surrounded by black aura. The burning seared through the black mist, which twisted and writhed around him in a frenzy. Elaine's body was swept into the flames, vanishing silently and without a trace.
That blood-colored flame was vivid, brilliant—so bright it could only come from life itself, from life being burned to its limits. Heat. Scorching heat.
That heat had already scorched his entire soul until it glowed red-hot. Even the void that could devour everything was beginning to soften, and behind it, a sharp, stinging pain—acidic and bitter—was on the verge of tearing through.
"Ahhhh—!"
A scream of unimaginable agony tore from Asa's throat. Blood-red flames and the ethereal black mist surged wildly around him, locked in a chaotic storm.
Roland, too, was swallowed by the surging tide of red and black. His palm had indeed struck Asa's chest—but that was all. The battered body, which moments ago seemed ready to shatter at any moment, had become unbelievably resilient. The sword energy, sharp enough to cleave mountains and split stone, couldn't even break the skin. Not only could it not penetrate, it couldn't even be withdrawn, as if his hand had become fused to Asa. With a single surge of the red-black waves, he was completely consumed—no scream, no trace, simply gone.
Asa's scream gradually shifted, from agony back into emptiness—then it stopped. Black mist seeped into his eyes, steadily consuming the blood-red fire until it faded. The blade of the Black Star was now almost fully fused with the hilt, the last few cracks slowly shrinking. When those fissures vanished completely, the full form of the Black Star—and the full power of the Death King—would be complete.
Red flame and black void, burning and twisting ever more fiercely, engulfed everything. Asa's figure could no longer be seen.
Talice stood frozen, tears streaming uncontrollably. She couldn't even bring herself to move closer—only stand in utter despair, watching helplessly. There seemed to be no hope left. Either Asa would be torn apart by the raging black-red maelstrom, or he would become the fully awakened Death King.
But there was still one person—one person watching it all. And he would never—could never—just watch. No matter how grave the injuries, no matter how hopeless the situation, no matter how deep the despair—he would never just stand there.
Grutt's hands could hardly be called hands anymore—those once-perfect masterpieces crafted by the gods to embody power and the meaning of life had been reduced to mangled flesh and shattered bone. Yet there was not a hint of hesitation in his expression, not a trace of defeat or despair. What remained was sheer hardness, unbending resolve, relentless ferocity, unstoppable courage... All the words that could describe such spirit, even if multiplied a hundredfold, would still fall short of capturing a fraction of his presence.
The strongest of all strengths has always been the spirit—the will, the soul. And with all of it burning inside him, Grutt threw himself into the seething tide of red and black surrounding Asa.
His fight spirit had already vanished. Now it was only his body, forcing its way through the maelstrom—pushing, crashing, charging forward. Piece by piece, the red flame and black mist melted him away. Yet he reached Asa at last, and raised his fist.
That hand—already shattered beyond recognition—formed a jagged, broken semblance of a fist. It was no longer the indestructible weapon of legend, no longer glowing with divine energy. All that remained was the blood splashing through the air with its swing. But still, the punch came down with unshakable resolve and a force that could shake the heavens—because it was his fist.
"Wake the hell up, you bastard!"
Red and black shattered together—the punch landed squarely on Asa's face.
Crack. Grutt's fist broke.
The strongest weapon, the ultimate symbol of power, finally and completely shattered.
Crack. Asa's head snapped to the side. And it wasn't just Grutt's fist that broke. Asa could hear it—crystal clear—something inside his own mind, his heart, his soul… breaking. Shattered by that ruined, blood-soaked punch.
The blood and flesh splattered from Grutt's broken hand sprayed all over Asa once more. Suddenly, the red flames surged higher—like that blood wasn't blood, but oil. The fire was no longer just red—it blazed with a blinding gold, like the heart of the sun.
In that instant, even the aura of the Black Star was drowned beneath the blaze. The fire didn't just scorch Asa's flesh—it seared into him, drilling inward. His eyes were filled with nothing but the blinding flames of the sun. Not a trace of black remained.
"You bastard…"
That shout came from Asa.
It was no longer a cry of struggle, no longer a senseless scream, no longer the hollow voice of the Death King. It was entirely—undeniably—his own voice.
He was fully awake now. Grutt's punch, the fire ignited by the mingled blood of those three… it had shattered all the darkness in his mind, all the chaos in his soul. Everything—gone.
Though it was just a curse, there wasn't a trace of anger in his voice. It was all sorrow. All pain. There was no room for any other emotion.
He had seen everything that happened. He remembered it all. The agony of that clarity drowned out even the splitting pain tearing through his body—it nearly crushed his spirit.
But he knew he couldn't fall. He raised the blade in his right hand—And brought it down upon his left arm, the one now fused entirely with the Black Star.
He no longer had any strength. The power of the Black Star had receded, and there was nothing left in his shattered body—not even enough to lift his hand without tearing muscles and shedding flesh.
He brought the blade down not with strength, but with pain—with grief. With the image of Elaine shielding him with her body. With the lingering warmth of her bloodied hands on his face. With the mingled blood flowing across his skin.
With Lancelote. With Roland. With the tens of thousands of warriors who gave their lives escorting him here. With everything his life had ever held—He brought the blade down.
The blade shattered. The weapon his father had forged with his own hands, the one that had accompanied him through countless battles—Snapped like paper against that blackened arm.
The ring, the Ring of Kings that had long exhausted its power and should've been nothing more than an ornament—Shattered as well. A flash of white light flickered from it—And sank into his arm.
Crack.
His petrified arm—shattered. Shattered completely into fragments, falling from the hilt of the sword.
The Black Star fell with it. The hilt, once fused with his arm, now crumbled alongside it.
And from the shattered remnants—As though the lid of a hellish abyss had been ripped open—Endless, boundless blackness surged forth.
There is no sound. But the darkness sought to devour everything. Yes, everything.
"Why didn't you just kill me at the beginning? You could've done it." Asa looked at Grutt with difficulty, forcing a wry smile. Tears streamed uncontrollably from his eyes, mixing with the blood.
"I told you long ago—if I'm still alive, I won't let you die."
Grutt looked at Asa calmly as he spoke. His tone was still as steady and confident as ever, but his voice was weakening. His body had not a single intact part left.
It was only now that Talice could finally run over. She threw her arms around Asa, speechless, casting white healing magic with all her might as tears poured down her face like a spring.
"You stupid... I told you not to come," Asa tried to raise his hand to touch her head—but he couldn't lift it anymore. He gave another wry smile, his tears also unstoppable. "So in the end... this is how it turns out. Should we call this a victory? Or a defeat?"
The black aura continued to gush out. Asa turned to glance at the darkness that looked as if the lid of hell had been torn open. His voice was faint.
"But none of that matters anymore. The result is the same. The hilt of the Black Star has shattered. All the power sealed inside is pouring out. Even if you won't let me die, we're all going to die."
As if in answer to his words, the black aura grew even stronger—more violent. It was no longer a surge—it was an explosion.
To obliterate all. To devour all.
This was the purest, most fundamental power of the Black Star. And now, there was no strength left in them to resist it.
Black. Everything—utterly everything—was swallowed by blackness.
Even the heavens and the earth disappeared into it.